Page 8 of Violent Love: Viktor (The Caged Hearts Pet Play #5)

Natalya

I took my time sipping the water he’d left in the room—lukewarm, half-full, but better than nothing. At least this cell had a toilet. A squat one, old and rusted, but it flushed. There was even a roll of toilet paper. Luxury, compared to the filth I’d been lying in before.

The memory of that other room made my skin crawl. I could still feel the grime clinging to me, soaked into my pores. My fingers twitched with the need to scratch it off, but I curled into the blanket instead, wrapping it tight around my naked body like it could shield me from memory.

The hunger had dulled now, more of a slow ache than a scream. Maybe it had given up. My tiny sips of water eased the nausea, but I was weak and lightheaded. My stomach had been empty for so long that even shame had begun to taste like sustenance.

I shut my eyes, tried not to think about it. About the shower.

About him.

About how I’d been forced to swallow his cum like it was my meal. My face flamed as bile rose in my throat, and I turned away from the toilet, gripping the blanket tighter until my arms ached.

Should I even be surprised? After what they’d done to Petrov, did I honestly think Viktor had limits?

No. He didn’t want a woman. He didn’t want a lover or a plaything.

He wanted a pet.

The word spun in my mind like a curse, looping until my thoughts frayed. Pet. Suka. Bitch. Crawling. Barking. The collar at my throat felt heavier by the hour, a silent noose tightening each time I remembered how quickly I’d obeyed.

How low I’d sunk.

I lay down, blanket cocooned around me, the room too quiet, too still. The bars on the window let in only a sliver of moonlight, but I stared at it like it could offer hope.

It didn’t.

He wasn’t coming tonight. Not with food. Not with punishment.

I was forgotten for now, left to rot in silence, too sick to hunger and too numb to cry.

***

I rubbed my eyes and yawned—until my brain caught up with my surroundings.

He was there.

Viktor sat in a chair beside the bed, unmoving, expression carved from stone. He didn’t blink. Didn’t speak. Just stared.

My breath caught in my throat.

He wore a tailored charcoal suit, a crisp shirt, and shiny shoes today, but there was no food in sight.

“How should a bitch greet her Master?”

he finally asked, voice quiet but firm.

I stiffened—the question laced with threat. I peeled the coarse blanket off and slid to the floor, my knees hitting the cold surface as I crawled toward him. Every movement felt like a fresh layer of skin was being stripped away.

When I reached his feet, I froze. I tried not to think. Not to feel. Just wait.

“Petrov died last night,”

he said flatly.

I risked a glance up, searching for some flicker of humanity in his face.

Nothing.

Was that a warning? A reminder?

He looked clean and groomed. His hair was neater today, shorter on the sides, and his beard trimmed. But the closer shave only highlighted the ruined scar that marred the left side of his face. He looked almost normal—almost—but nothing about him was.

“Kiss my feet.”

He placed his hands calmly on his thighs.

My stomach turned.

The image of Petrov’s peeled flesh flashed behind my eyes, and I bent without another word, pressing my lips to the tops of his polished shoes. I held my breath, hoping it was enough.

“I said, kiss my feet. Those were my shoes.”

He tapped a finger against his leg. The large star inked on the back of his hand caught my eye. I purposefully avoided the snake.

“Sorry, Master,”

I whispered. My voice shook as I adjusted my posture and unlaced his shoes.

Each tug of the laces felt like a countdown to some invisible line I was about to cross.

I removed his shoes with trembling hands, careful, reverent. Then his socks. Lifting his trousers slightly, I exposed bare skin—lightly dusted with dark hair, toes clean and trimmed.

I was naked. On my knees. Holding his foot like a sacred object. Like it mattered.

I kissed the top of one, then the other. My lips barely brushed his bone.

How long was enough? Would I be punished for doing it wrong?

He rested one foot in my lap.

“Who’s going to put my socks and shoes back on?”

he asked, like we were discussing the weather.

I swallowed down bile and slid the sock back over his foot, the fabric tight and warm in my shaking hands. The silence stretched. It was heavy and watchful. I forced myself not to look up.

“Turn around and face the bed,” he said.

His tone was unreadable.

I obeyed slowly, dread thick in my gut.

“On your hands and knees.”

I dropped forward, spine locking tight as my skin prickled. His footsteps moved behind me. Then—

His hands gripped my hips and dragged me backwards. My knees scraped along the floor, but I didn’t make a sound.

I stared at the mattress. Braced.

“Spread your legs.”

I obeyed.

A cold object pressed between my ass cheeks, and I gasped.

“Every dog should have a tail,”

he murmured, his voice calm as death. “Fight it all you want. This is going inside your asshole.”

I jerked, glancing over my shoulder.

He held a black silicone tail, sleek and curved.

“No—”

I started, but his hand clenched my ass and pushed the tip against my tightly clenched hole.

Pain bloomed as it breached me. I whimpered, fingers curling into the floor.

It slid deeper, stretching me, claiming space inside my body that had never been his to take. When it finally popped into place, I sagged. Shaking.

The worst was over.

Or so I thought.

He tapped the base of the tail, and something flicked. A faint vibration pulsed deep inside me.

My eyes flew to the mirror-polished tile. The tip of the tail was wagging.

Tears sprang to my eyes.

This wasn’t a toy. It was a ritual.

A violation meant to turn me from woman to pet.

To become his property.

“Crawl for me,”

he ordered. “Let me see that tail wag.”

The floor burned against my knees as I moved, slow and shamefully stiff. I could barely move. Weak. Hollow.

“I don’t see your tail wagging, Suka.”

I winced. And forced my hips to sway.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

The tail moved.

He chuckled—a low, amused sound.

And when the door clicked shut behind him—I collapsed.

My hands covered my face, my body curled into itself.

This wasn’t discipline.

It was death.

Not of the body, but of everything I’d once been.

Viktor didn’t need to peel my skin like he did Petrov’s. He didn’t need a scalpel or bone saw. He was going to butcher me slowly—one humiliation at a time.